


What It Could Have Been

by CollectiveMinds



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon-Typical Violence, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Good Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Hybrid Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Manipulation, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phil's B+ Parenting, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Temporary Character Death, Unreliable Narrator, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29528589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollectiveMinds/pseuds/CollectiveMinds
Summary: In one reality, Wilbur watched as his unfinished symphony was destroyed by his own hand. In one reality, he met his final death by his own blade, wielded by his father. In one reality, he came back as a ghost and watched as his friends and family made the same mistakes over and over again. In one reality, his father managed to resurrect him, desperate to bring his son back.We are no longer in that reality. When Wilbur opens his eyes and finds himself alive once more, it becomes apparent that this is not the world he'd come to know, regardless of how familiar the faces may be.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 89





	1. The Resurrections

If he were being honest, Ghostbur didn’t know what to expect. After all, he hadn’t been alive, truly alive, for months. Still, he stood there. Sun shined warm against his numb skin, filtering through the cracked earth down into the carved-out spot that was destined to host his resurrection. Gently bouncing on the balls of his feet, the artificial rise and fall of his chest gave off the illusion of calm as he gazed out past the people around him and out to dancing shadows. A gnawing jitter fluttered about his nerves making him feel uneasy. He didn’t know why. 

As the unease grew, he felt something nudge against him. Blinking, Ghostbur turned his attention to the source. With a smile, he ran his hand through the knotted blue coat as a pang of sadness washed through him. He wished he had the time to brush through Friend’s pelt before the ritual, but Phil was very particular about when they had to start. 

As time ticked by, he was left to his own devices until Ranboo appeared in front of him. Receiving an awkward smile, he was asked to say goodbye to Friend, reassured that Friend will be waiting for him once everything was said and done. Dropping to his knees, he felt the rough drag of Friend’s tongue against his cheek as he leaned over to give his friend a quick hug before letting Ranboo lead him away. 

Being coaxed to his feet by Phil, Ghostbur tried to muster up a smile, pointedly not looking at the sharpened sword sheathed on his father’s side. Stood in the center of the blue platform, Ghostbur shifted from foot to foot. A warm feeling filled his chest as he thought about how Eret had taken the time to build this for them, for him. 

Taking a deep breath, despite not needing it, he watched as Totems were meticulously placed equidistant all around him. Emerald eyes stared coldly back at him. No, through him. Every sparkling gemmed pinprick sparked something that sent ice straight into his soul. 

With each one placed, the sun rose higher and higher into the sky. The once warm rays soon turned scolding with each addition. As the sunlight caught against the golden casings of the Totems, the intensitive seem to multiple. Refracting around the room and, more importantly, within the circle. Every passing moment allowed them to grow brighter and brighter as the sun finally settled directly above him. No more were the shadows that once danced. As he looked around for them, almost as an afterthought, he noticed that everyone else was gone as well. Everyone else was gone but Phil.

His simulated breathing faltered as his past forced its way to the forefront of his mind. The far-off memory of blinding pain followed by relief. Without thought, he took an uneasy step back, his foot brushed against one of the Totems. Confusion flooded his senses as fear bubbled up within him. Why was he scared? He should be happy. He wanted this, hadn't he? He wanted to be Alivebur again.

Shaking, Ghostbur wrapped himself in a hug, not noticing Phil’s own faltering step forward. Ghostbur wanted to live, but Alivebur had wanted to die. Alivebur was relieved to no longer be here. Ghostbur didn’t want to leave. Was- Was he second-guessing this decision. He didn’t know, but he didn’t want to continue if that was the case.

“Phil. I- I change my mind. I- I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Wilbur, we talked about this.” His voice was caring but detached as he took his first step up the stairs.

“I know, but-” He was cut off.

“You’re coming right back. It’s fine.” 

Looking up, Phil was right there, sword drawn and held at his side. His wings were flared, the damage from the explosion visible on the frayed feather of his left wing.

“You said that last time and I did, I did come back, but this time-”

“You’re still coming right back.”

“No, I won’t!” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, “It won’t be me. He has never been me. He wanted to die, Phil. I- I don’t want to die. I want to live.”

The heat of the sun’s rays beating down on him, becoming unbearable. Everything felt washed out, too bright to look at. His eyes hurt.

“And you will. It’ll be okay, Wilbur.”

Before he knew it, a hand rested gently against his shoulder. Looking up, Ghostbur soaked up the comfort. He wouldn’t go through with it, would he?

“Phil?”

His voice was hopeful as he saw the caring expression soften on his father’s face. Empathizing and loving with a touch of understanding and sadness. As he was pulled forward, Ghostbur moved to wrap his arms around Phil, believing he was being brought into a hug before the intense pain of the blade piercing him straight through his chest. Tears sizzled against his skin as he tasted the sharp and familiar tang of iron on his tongue. Struggling, he shifted his arms and attempted to push away. Each motion jostled the blade as his father pulled him close, into the hug that he once wanted but now feared as the sword cut deeper and deeper into him.

Soft reassurance muttered into his ear but was lost in the noise. Meaningless and empty with the betrayal. He didn’t want this. Struggling to breathe, he let out a pained whimper as he felt a hand run through his hair. All he could do was sob into that shoulder of that man he called his father. His sweater stuck to his skin, sticky and hot as sparks shot up around him. The air vibrated with magic, free and volatile, trapped within the circle of the ritual. 

Knees buckling from under him, he fell further onto the blade. He could feel the crossguard press against him, solid and unmoving. Resting his head against Phil's shoulder, he gave into the faux comfort, too weak to care. It felt like an eternity as he went limp in the other’s arms. It wasn't until he was jolted back did he register the quick jerk of the sword sliding out from within him, leaving him unsupported. Faltering, he stumbled backward. He couldn’t see Phil anymore, only his silhouette illuminated by the particles emitting from the Totems that confined him to his unwanted fate. Magic began to infuse into his blood, invigorating him with the all too familiar feeling of the potions that started all of this in the first place.

His vision blurred and flared. He couldn’t see anything but the white flash of what could only describe as an explosion. His breathing began to pick up, harsh and fast. He- He couldn’t breathe. Tripping over his own feet, his legs finally gave out as he felt the world slip from out from underneath him. A wave of vertigo overwhelmed his sense until all he could feel was his head slamming hard up against the ground.


	2. The Aftermath

Coming to, he was greeted with a symphony of pain. Drumming to the beat of his rapid heart, blood rushed through his head and kept time with the screeching whistle that rang in his ears. Every nerve felt like it was on fire as they sang with an unforgiving dissonance. Shifting to sit up, a wave of nausea rushed through him, a sudden crescendo that had him rolling over. Dry heaving, his fingers dragged against the dust and rubble. Each choking breath left an astringent and bitter taste on his tongue. The unforgettable scent of sulfur and gunpowder assaulted his sense as his arms collapsed from under him. 

The once sunbathed lapis was now replaced with fridge stone that served to cool his flushed skin. As he laid on his side, he blinked open his eyes. His vision was swayed, tinted red, and blurred. Straining, he couldn’t make out anything other than the shadow of two wings, highlighted by rays of light. No longer did the sun shine into the ruins from all around, but from a singular origin point.

Too tired to keep his eyes open for long, he let them flutter shut, leaving himself vulnerable to the other’s ministrations. For a moment, everything was quiet until a hand brushed against his hair. Recoiling, he tried to shift away from the touch as a stray whimper escaped him. This did nothing to deter his father from gently lifting his torso to rest against him. Forcing his eyes open once more, he looked up at the man who had killed him, the man who had hoped to resurrect him.

The resurrection. He had forgotten about that. Part of him wondered if it had worked. He certainly felt alive. Well, he certainly was in pain, which means he was probably alive. As Ghostbur, the only pain he felt had been suppressed underneath a comfortable layer of fog, leaving him numb to it while he plastered on a smile. 

Shifting to sit up, he heard the other's protest slightly but did nothing to stop him. In the end, he hadn’t managed to move far. Still heavily supported by other, he slowly brought a hand up to his chest. He needed to know. Shifting his gaze down, he realized all evidence of the loss of his third life had vanished. As he stared at his unmarred chest, clothed no longer in the yellow sweater that he’d long since gotten used to but the gray shirt and black jacket he could only vaguely remember wearing before joining the Dream SMP so many months ago. He was shaken from the thought as a drop of blood fell upon the back of his hand.

Moving to find the source, he winced as he brushed his fingers across his temple. Pulling back, he looked at them. Crimson coated his pale skin. Part of himself didn’t know how to feel. It had been a long time since he was able to be injured, let alone bleed.

“Phil? What happened?” His voice was horse and rough. He wanted to cough again from all the dust and smoke in the air.

“Hey, it’s alright. Everything is going to be okay now.” Phil’s voice was light and reassuring, a stark contrast to the situation Wilbur found himself in.

“What are you talking about? Phil, I don’t understand.” Struggling to sit up, Wilbur took in his surroundings. Everything struck him as eerily familiar. He couldn’t place it, but he knew he was no longer on the stage Eret had made for his resurrection. “Where are we?”

Wilbur felt Phil tense and mumbled something under his breath that he couldn't quite catch. Before he could repeat his question, he was cut off.

“Don’t worry about that, okay? We’re leaving so it doesn’t matter.”

Panic began to rise within Wilbur. Something had gone wrong with the resurrection. That was the only thing that would make sense. Something had gone wrong and Phil clearly knew what, so why wasn’t he telling him. Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes. After Phil had gone through all the trouble to bring him back, the very least he could do was tell him what was going on instead of leaving him in the dark. He was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of being ignored. Tired of being betrayed. Tired of living. He just wanted someone to be honest with him. 

He felt Phil wipe away a stray tear, “Everything will be alright. Just stay awake for me while I get us out of here, okay?”

With that, he felt Phil shift to pick him up. Being lifted off of the ground, bridle style, Wilbur decided to take advantage of Phil's temporary disbalance. Pushing against Phil's chest, he rolled out of his father’s arms. Hitting the ground hard, he scrambled back as he heard Phil shout his name. His head throbbed but at least he was out of the other’s grip. He wanted answers, not empty reassurance and deflection. He had enough of that to last him a lifetime, let alone two. 

“Tell me what’s going on!”

He watched Phil falter, indecision clear on the other’s face, but before his father could make up his mind to speak, a new voice joined the fray.

“Get the fuck away from him.”


	3. An Old Friend

Wilbur's breath caught in his throat. An indistinguishable wave of emotions washed through him as he watched Schlatt emerge from the hole in the wall. He didn’t know how to feel, how to react. Schlatt was dead. Dead and gone and long since buried. Memorialized with a funeral Wilbur never got. Remember in earnest and not through some twisted lens. Wilbur was baffled at the audacity of this man to be here, alive and well, protecting him, of all people, from Phil.

“You lay one more finger on him and I will use your fucking skull as a shot glass.”

He watched as Schlatt invaded the space between him and his father. Dust being kicked up with every step. Tension tight in the hybrid’s shoulders, visible as he shifted his weight. He didn’t need to see Schlatt’s face to feel the fury that radiated off of him in waves. 

He’d seen Schlatt angry a dozen times but, he couldn’t remember the last time Schlatt had been angry on his defense. It had been years since they had been on good terms, let alone at a point where Schlatt would deliberately place himself between Wilbur and whatever the perceived danger may be. Yet, here he was, protecting him. 

Wilbur felt conflicted. As much as he tried to see the tyrant that stolen his country, all that was before him was the ghost of the friend he once had. It almost hurt to see Schlatt like this. He didn’t deserve Schlatt’s concern or pity or whatever this was. Not after everything they’d been through. Their friendship had died years ago, despite how much he failed to admit it. Maybe if he’d been honest with himself sooner, he would have never sought out the endorsement that led to all of this. 

“Listen, mate, I’m not going to let you hurt Wilbur anymore. Tommy told me what you’ve done. I’m taking him home,” Phil sounded cold and detached, wings flared to make himself look bigger. 

Looking past Schlatt, he could see the embers glowing like fireflies, hidden among singed feathers. From his angle on the ground, he could make out spots of light shining through the ruffled feathers. 

Guilt washed through him. Had Phil not tried to shield him, maybe his wings wouldn’t be in the condition they are now. Charred from taking the brunt of an explosion. 

He remembered not caring the first time. All he cared about was the hissing followed by the rush of an explosion throwing him and Phil further into the room. How he pushed Phil off of him to look at his destruction. Even as the wings flared, emotion and pain dripping off of his father like the blood that stained the ground did he not care as he begged to die. Begged to die with his unfinished symphony. The one he had reclaimed. The one with so much potential that did nothing to deter the pain and paranoia in his heart. 

He remembers being Ghostbur. He remembers spending time with his dad during his house arrest. Of gently tugging the older man’s sleeve to sit on the ground with him and Friend. Running his fingers through the partially healed feathers. Smiling and chatting as if proof of his atrocities weren't right there in front of him. 

His breath hitched as he shook his head, shaking the memory away. His vision blurred once more as he pushed himself backward. Hitting part of the fallen wall, he used it to support him while he reoriented himself. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he coughed as his vision cleared.

Phil stood his ground well against Schlatt, strong and stoic. His face shadowed by his signature bucket hat and illuminated by the midday sun. Even standing amongst an inky pool of fallen feathers, blood, and ash, Phil’s look almost untouched. Wilbur wondered how unscathed Phil was. Still focused on the wings, he noticed something. He couldn’t see the damage on his primary feathers. While hurt and frayed, the tips on his left-wing were no longer riddled with holes. Instead, the injury looked higher up, centralized around his shoulders and secondary feathers on both wings. 

It looked like when Phil went to shield him, he’d had more time. Time to fully protect his son before the TNT went off instead of having to dive between him and his conclusion. 

"Like hell you are,” Schlatt’s voice snapped Wilbur’s attention back onto him. He didn’t know how much of the conversation he missed. It was hard to pay attention to what was going on, “If you think I’m-“ 

“Schlatt?” He hadn’t realized he’d spoken at first, still trying to process everything going on around him.

Soon the light in his eyes was blocked as a hand cupped his cheek. Schlatt crouched in front of him, expression hidden by shadows despite being so close. His hand was warm. Alive. Without a thought, he leaned into the touch, eyes closing without his permission. A thumb gently ran under his eye, comforting, as a finger ghosted over his temple and forehead. 

“Shit. Wil. Okay, hold on a little longer for me. Can you do that?” 

Not sure how else to respond, Wilbur nodded. Feeling the hand slip away, he opened his eyes to see Schlatt grab the front of his father’s shirt. 

“You’re lucky I’ve got more important priorities right now or I’d make sure that heart of yours never beats again. So, I’m going to say this once. Run. Run and never come back because if I see your ugly mug ever again, I don’t care if you're Wil’s old man or not, it’s game over.”

He watched Phil stumble back, being pushed as the other hybrid released his hold.

“Don’t worry son, I’ll be back for you.” 

With that, he heard Phil’s footsteps retreat, or at least what he assumed to be Phil’s as they were followed by the sound of two wings flapping. He didn’t think Phil should be flying in his condition. He didn’t know if Phil could fly in his condition, seeing as the explosion stole his flight the first time around.

The first time around? That’s what this was, wasn’t it? Wilbur having the honor to relive his past. Maybe he was dead, forced to experience his death, his worst moment, his biggest regret on loop. That would explain why Schlatt was here. 

A hand gently patted his cheek, “Come on loverboy, can’t die on me yet.” 

No, he couldn’t be dead. He’d imagine death would feel more numb, more distant, more like Ghostbur. This was all too loud, too vivid, too alive.

“Let's get you out of here. Sooner you're patched up, the sooner I can yell at you for how fucking stupid that was.” 

Humming in response, he felt Schlatt lift him up off of the ground and onto his feet. For a moment, Wilbur thought he was going to fall until a strong arm wrapped around his waist and his arm was draped around the hybrid’s neck. Together, they made their way out of wherever they may be.


	4. Was It Meant To Be?

As the sun shined brightly in their faces as they stepped out of the darkened room, Wilbur immediately realized where they were. After all, with how often he’d visited this room in the past, he’s surprised it took him this long to finally recognize it. They had just stepped out of the button room, his Chekhov’s Gun, the ending to his unfinished symphony. It made sense, he thought, at least in a roundabout way. This was where Eret had chosen to build the shine for the resurrection ritual and where he lost his last life.

Still, it was odd to be back here. Even after all the time he’d spent alone in that room, staring at the button, contemplating his inevitable execution and destruction of everything he’d worked so hard for. It almost felt cruel to bring him back to this point. To bring him back to just after his greatest mistake, unable to change things.

“Wil? Wilbur? You still with me?” He hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking nor had he noticed pulling away from Schlatt. 

Turning away from the room, he met Schlatt’s gaze. Concerned pooled in the hybrid’s eyes. He wanted to scoff at the notion, but the sound got caught in his throat. Schlatt was supposed to be dead, yet here he was, alive and breathing and concerned about him. 

Unless his memory was more messed up than he first thought. Schlatt being here, concerned for him or no, didn’t make sense. Schlatt died only a few hours before Wilbur finally broke and blew up L’Manburg.

_ Dream was leading him to his old drug van. The place where it all started. Panic bubbled up within him, not from Dream or their destination, but from everyone else. Crowding around him as he entered the Camarvan. _

_ Before him was Schlatt. Even at his lowest, Wilbur doesn’t think he’d ever seen the other man, his former friend, in such a state. His tie hung like a noose around his neck. His jacket was falling off of him, revealing a shirt stained with sweat and alcohol. Hair hung limp with a slight sheen that spoke volumes about how little Schlatt had cared for himself. _

_ Empty bottles were kicked as everyone crowded past him. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Voices spoke over each other, question and jeering.  _

_ “What are you doing?” He finally forced himself to speak. _

_ “Huh,” Despite everyone pressed into a room too small, it seemed only now did Schlatt register the intrusion through glassy eyes, “The hell, is this a surprise birthday party?” _

_ Wilbur couldn’t begin to comprehend what had happened. It hurt to see Schlatt like this, even after everything that had happened. Why did it hurt? Schlatt betrayed him. Just like everyone who he let get close. The first in a long line, and as always, Wilbur never learned. After all, he was the one who let Schlatt back in, only to get betrayed again. _

_ “Is this what you wanted to show me, Dream?” He never got an answer, other voices piping up, asking new questions over him, distracting the conversation, dragging it in a new direction. _

_ Instead, he stared, looking upon Schlatt as guilty and as shameless as everyone else. Taking in Schlatt’s self-destruction and gawking at it as if he were an exhibit on display. _

_ He watched as the hybrid broke down in front of them, lashing out. It was only when Schlatt broke the bottle he was holding and started swinging, aiming for his son, that he was knocked out of his strange detachment.  _

_ “Schlatt, are you ready to die?” The words left hot on his lips. Despite the venom the question dripped, he felt cold, numb almost. Voices cheered around him. ‘Kill him.’ They said. ‘Kill him.’  _

_ He guided Tommy to stand in front of Schlatt, telling him to take his crossbow out. With a hand on his shoulder, he looked straight at Schlatt, “Schlatt, what do you have to say for yourself.” _

_ The other started wheezing, breathless, and strained as the hybrid gripped his chest. _

_ “Schlatt?” Concern he didn’t know he had coated the name. _

_ “Does anyone smell toast?”  _

_ “Toast?” He muttered before pushing down whatever feeling was eating at him, “Schlatt, just give us your last words.” _

_ He never got an answer. Before he knew it, the man he once called his friend was seizing on the ground. Then it was over. He wanted to feel numb. He wanted to not care. He wanted to not feel. Everything around him was loud. Laughing and cheering and pushing in the caravan that was too small. _

A laugh escaped his lips. His eyes teared. He’d watched Schlatt die, yet here he was. Donned in dress pants, scuffed dress shoes, and a white button-up that had seen better days. The sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and covered in ash. His hair was longer, pulled into what looked to have once been a neat low ponytail, but now was barely holding together, various strands attempting to fall out of place. Yet, despite his appearance, he didn’t look disorganized. Not like he had been. This was clearly a once well put together outfit, not a half-drunken attempt. Wilbur remembered the smell of gunpowder in the air.

Without thinking, he reached out to touch one of Schlatt’s horns. The left one was distinctly shorter than the right. The end was snapped off. Part of him wondered how that must have happened. Feeling Schlatt removing Wilbur’s hand from his horn, he half worried that he had crossed some unspoken line. Instead, he received another concerned look. 

“Okay, fuck. Come, sit down, now.” 

Schlatt guided him to a nearby tree. Reluctantly following the direction, Wilbur blinked, coming back into the moment, “Shouldn’t we be heading back to L’Manburg?”

“L’Manburg can wait. What the fuck were you thinking?” He watched Schaltt run a hand over his face, “Okay, first question, what’s your name?”

“Schlatt-” 

“Wrong answer. Come on, you know the drill, let's just get through this I can get a gauge on how bad that head wound of yours is.”

Head wound? Wilbur had forgotten about that. 

“Wilbur.”

“Wilbur what?”

“Wilbur Soot?”

“You asking or telling.”

“Telling.”

“Good,” Schlatt gave him a smirk. This was feeling too reminiscent of the days before Wilbur ever joined an SMP. Back when he and Schlatt would travel together and get into trouble.

“How old are you?”

“24.”

“Where are we right now?”

“Outside of L’Manburg.”

“What’s today’s date?”

Wilbur hesitated. He wasn’t sure why his heart started beating faster at the question. It was the 16th. It had to be. The day they couldn’t stop talking about. The day everything was meant to go down.

“I’m not sure.” Wilbur finally said. 

“Shit. Okay, what’s the last thing you remember?” 

_ The room was cold and dark. The dust in the air was suffocating. They had won. They had won, and yet, Wilbur couldn’t get this idea, this impulse, this desire out of his head. _

_ “The thing that I built this nation for doesn’t exist anymore.” He yelled to an empty room, trying to vent out all the emotions and thoughts that taunted him. _

“Schlatt-”

_ His hand hovered over the button, “It’s over.” _

“Please, Wilbur, just answer the damn question.” Schlatt’s voice didn’t sound frustrated morso concerned. 

_ “What’re you doing?” His heart stopped. _

“Wil, what’s the last thing you remember before hitting your head?”

_ “There was a saying, Phil. By a traitor, once part of L’Manburg. A traitor, I don’t know if you heard of Eret? He had a saying Phil.”  _

Taking a breath, his fingers twitched. Wilbur said the only thing he could say. 

_ “It was never meant to be.” _

“I blew up L’Manburg.”


	5. Confusion and Flashbacks

“I blew up L’Manburg.” 

There was a beat of silence between them as Wilbur met Schlatt’s gaze. He held his breath, waiting for the hybrid’s reaction. Relief flooded him as anger flashed across the other’s face. He didn’t know why, but it felt good to have the other’s hatred directed at him. To be held responsible for what he’s done, even if he regretted it now.

“For fuck sake, Wil. This isn’t your fault. I don’t give a shit what your family does, you can’t control them, and you are certainly not responsible for their fucking actions.”

“Schlatt-“ Wilbur felt confused. Why was he defending him? 

“No, Wilbur, you are not taking the blame for this. Not after everything that’s happened.”

After everything that had happened? After what? 

He’d destroyed his country. 

_ Smoke filled his lungs, the overwhelming scent of gunpowder. His skin burned with the heat. Standing before the crater that once was his country, he threw his arms out in euphoric bliss. “My L’Manburg Phil! My unfinished symphony! Forever unfinished. If I can’t have this, then no one can, Phil.” _

He’d started a war.

_ “Is to revoke the citizenship of Wilbur Soot and Tommy Innit!” _

_ Shock flooded his system as he yelled at Tommy to run. Arrows whizzed by he turned to escape. Pulling out a potion, he didn’t think twice as the icy liquid passed his lips. Magic buzzed in his veins as his skin turned translucent then invisible. But it wasn’t enough as an arrow pierced his shoulder. Sharp and true. He didn’t think when he pulled it out. Only wanting the visual indicator of his presence to be gone. Blood dripped down in rivets. Stumbling, he heard Tommy cry as he hit the ground.  _

_ They’re in the forest. Anger and fear swirled in his mind as he forced back the tears that burned. A manic smile graced his lips as he redirected his emotions into anything but weakness. _

_ “Tommy, let’s be the bad guys.” _

He led a revolution.

_ The tunnel was dark and cramped, but it didn’t matter that didn’t deter from the hope that filled him as Eret led them down the secret passage. Entering the Final Control Room, everything was looking up for just a moment. Until the click of a button undid everything. As the room was ambushed, all he could hear was Eret, right before Punz’s blade pierced his skin. _

_ “Down with the revolution, boys. It was never meant to be” _

He’s the reason for all of this. So, why? 

“How is this not my fault? How is all of this not my fault Schatt? After everything I’ve done,” His voice cracked, wet with tears he refused to let fall.

“What did I just say? You can’t fucking control anyone else’s actions. I don’t give a shit if it’s your brother or your old man or that girl friend of yours. Their messes ain’t your problem.” Schlatt’s voice was blunt.

Wilbur was shaking. He feels like he doesn’t know what’s going on. 

“How are you so sure about that?”

_ Philza, wings extended to their full length as he stood amongst the smoldering remains of L’Manburg. TNT rained around him, razing the country to the ground as Withers filled the air, “Since I was forced to kill my own son, you idiot!” _

A hand cupped his cheek, wiping away tears he didn’t know were falling. They burned sharp against his eyes. “You didn’t ask for Tommy to go fucking psycho. You didn’t ask for your old man to blow up the country. You didn’t ask to get betrayed and manipulated. I don’t give a shit if they claim that this is ‘for you’ or ‘on your behalf.’ That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Without a thought, he hugged Schlatt. He didn’t know why. Maybe he just wanted to be comforted or hide from his failures, but it felt right, even as the other tense under his touch before slowly relaxing. As stilled arms slowly wrapped around him, Wilbur cried. Blistering tears soaking into the soot-stained fabric of the hybrid’s shoulder. All of his repressed emotions poured out of him as his fingers curled against whatever he could grasp. He didn’t know how long they stayed there for, just that they finally parted when gentle hands pushed him away.

Received an awkward pat on his shoulder, Schlatt cleared his throat, “Right… Come on, let’s get back to whatever remains of L’Manburg.”

Wiping away tears, he gave him a watery smile that he couldn’t have hoped to pull off with such ease prior to his time as Ghostbur, “Sure thing, Schlatt.”


	6. Withering Heights

They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked. Neither of them said anything after Wilbur's little meltdown, for lack of a better word. Wilbur didn’t mind. It gave him a chance to think. To try and quiet his racing mind. Information and feelings fought for control while memories leaked in. It was hard to focus on any one train of thought. While he could blame his disorientation on the head wound, Wilbur knew that wasn’t the cause. 

Taking a deep breath, he felt the air enter his lungs, calming him slightly. The sun was warm against his skin as a soft breeze passed by. It was odd. He had gotten used to experiencing the world from under a thick layer of fog. It was as if he was remembering what it felt like to be alive.

Part of him wanted to slip a hand under his shirt to double check, to confirm that the scar was no longer there. Sure, he was no longer dressed in his signature yellow sweater that defined his afterlife, but he hadn’t actually checked. The button room was dark and disorienting. While he’d felt relief in the moment, it was temporary. He wanted to know, but he’d have to wait. 

Fingers still trailed the collar of his shirt, feeling the fabric. It was soft and worn beneath his touch. Familiar. This was an outfit he’d hadn’t donned in what felt like years. He’d meant to change back into it once he’d gotten home from the Championships, but then he’d gotten a call from Tommy to join the DreamSMP. Seeing as he was already packed and would have been returning to an empty house anyway, Wilbur hadn’t thought twice about his clothes, moving to the server with his bag slung around one shoulder and his guitar around the other. Before he knew it, he was changing into a revolutionary outfit in the back of a drug van. 

How did he get to this point? From a leader, a revolutionary, a man willing to put himself in jeopardy to achieve his vision. From someone who wanted to fight with words instead of swords and have his name go down in history. How did he become someone so paranoid and delusional that he’d cut off all ties in fear of being controlled and betrayed? To become someone who would rather brutally destroy everything he’d worked for in an effort to not conform to anyone else’s will and surrender?

What happened to the boy who just wanted to write music in his bedroom? To the boy that spent his time reading, content to take care of the house while his dad and older brother were out living their lives. To the boy who would give anything to make sure his younger brother was happy, even at the expense of his own? 

What happened to him?

How did he become someone where his death was his happiest memory?

_ “Kill me. Phil, kill me.” _

When had that become who he was? The villain in his own history?

_ Arms wrapped around him, shaking with emotion so different than the adrenaline high he was experiencing. Everything felt light and distant as tears soaked into his hair. “Ah, God! You couldn’t just let- You couldn’t just win. You couldn’t just- ” _

_ “Phil,” Iron stained his tongue, harsh and metallic as he spoke, “You know when Dream- I mean, I guess you don’t know, but Dream said earlier that there was no traitor. Phil, he said earlier, ‘hey you know what, there is no traitor,' he said to me.”  _

_ It was getting harder to breathe, “And you know what? He fucking lied. He lied!” Laughter escaped him, shoulders shaking as he curled himself around the blade still buried in his chest. “Phil, it’s Technoblade. Phil, it’s Technoblade. Phil, it’s Technoblade.” _

_ He heard his father sputter, “The most powerful person on the server is the traitor are you-” _

_ “Phil,” Wilbur cut him off, “He had eight Withers ready to go.”  _

_ His father tensed under him, panic rising as understanding hit him, “Oh my god, I need- I need to get out of here. Oh my god. Wait, what do you mean?” _

_ He felt his father lay him down onto the cold stone. His words were weak as he mumbled out, “Go as fast as you can, Phil. Go see them. Go on.” _

_ The sword was pulled out of his chest in one swift motion. Wincing, he turned his head to follow Phil’s movements, watching his father leave as he was left alone to bleed out.  _

_ “It was never meant to be.” He whispered with a smile on his lips.  _

“Schlatt!” Wilbur was brought out of the memory with a panic. How could he have forgotten, “Schlatt, wait-”

His words died on his lips as all of the muscles in his abdomen began to seize. His chest burned as he realized he couldn't draw breath. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed, trapped in an unforgiving vice. Every attempt to inhale left him choking. The air around him felt icy; biting against him as it began to pick up speed.

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. Straining, he forced a breath into his starved lungs. Every inhale a rough drag against his palate. The sharp tang of ozone coated his tongue as he pulled out his communicator. He knew what it would say, but he still forced himself to look.

jschlatt has made the advancement  [Withering Heights]

WilburSoot has made the advancement  [Withering Heights]


End file.
